


Druxy

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Dark, First Relationship, M/M, Metaphors, POV Third Person, Sadstuck, Unrealistic Expectations, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There is a fundamental sweetness in Jake, a vitality like growing things.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Dirk strives to cultivate that natural potential, tries to work Jake into the most successful version of himself to face muster, like training a vine to a trellis."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Druxy

**Author's Note:**

> " **Druxy**  - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside."
> 
> This was originally written at the request of [doughtier](http://doughtier.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, now presented to AO3 because it's decently polished and I'm pleased with it.

There is a fundamental sweetness in Jake, a vitality like growing things. 

Jake's green text sprawls across Dirk's shades, superimposed over his vision and unfettered by the marshaling of punctuation, reaching into Dirk's brain until the final full stop pulls it to a halt. It's kudzu vines, growing fast and untamed and getting tendrils into everything. Dirk cannot bear to prune it.

Dirk gives Jake the autoresponder, a distraction, a perfect willing sacrifice to stave off Jake's overwhelming assault on Dirk's senses.

Jake doesn't even do it on purpose.

Jake is a honeypot temptation, through no efforts of his own devising. It's not up in Dirk's biased head, no convoluted fabrication created by his mind to explicate his attraction. Dirk observes, analyzes, calculates the parameters of their reality. Assesses the extent of the effect. Jake's nectar-sweet charm captivates Jane and Roxy as readily as it entices Dirk into obsession, a sample size he will have to content himself with because they are unable to conduct larger-scaled tests.

Dirk strives to cultivate that natural potential, tries to work Jake into the most successful version of himself to face muster, like training a vine to a trellis. He hones Jake's skills, holds himself to the greatest impartiality, hems in his attraction to the best of his ability. Missed messages from Jake leave a trail through all of Dirk's electronics, like pollen rubbed off on fingers, bright particles clinging to everything touched.

Once they enter the game there will be no barrier between them, no distance to lessen the psychic pull, drawing Dirk like a sunflower turning toward the sun.

Dirk has honed Jake's battle reflexes, first through the sly distribution of web links, then directly, after sending out the Brobot. He knows what Jake needs to become, cajoles and pushes and even avoids Jake when necessary, nudging Jake's evolutionary trajectory forward with the utmost of surgical precision. Jake will become battle-ready, the ruthless killing machine Dirk has promised. They are all relying on it.

In the game, after the detonation-force impact of their entrance dissipates, there comes the first uninterrupted moment where Dirk and Jake can size each other up face-to-face. Dirk can grasp Jake's forearms with a too-tight grip, dual-wielding viceclaws, can clutch into Jake's skin until the reality of their proximity imprints itself onto Dirk's palms. Jake can grin with the force of an independent gravitational pull, can propose a quick friendly scrum to celebrate being together. 

They go a round.

Dirk is quick and sharp, cat-agile and possessed of great speed, of well-honed reflexes. He plans to dodge around Jake playfully, flashstep in and out and see if he can't get the upper hand. He wants to slot into Jake's personal bubble, feel the warmth radiating off of Jake's skin and squirm together, more like writhing entwined snakes than wrestlers. 

Dirk ends up flat on his back almost before he knows what's happening. He instant-replays his mind, spools back the footage and watches the quick, spare motions in his head. No movement wasted. Every gesture thought through. Jake's weight is on him, heavy and hard, greater force than Dirk had calculated for and even when he strains up, experimentally, there is no hope of getting free. 

Dirk thinks, this is nothing like Jake in speech, in text.

Dirk thinks, this is exactly like the Jake of those words – completely fucking intuitive. 

Jake has the widest doofus smile on his face, so pleased with himself Dirk swears he can see the swell of Jake's pride through his skin. Dirk's chest is tight, either from the close press of their hips, or the complete defiance of his expectations – Dirk hesitates to try and judge. The grass beneath him scratches through his shirt, creating an itch that mirrors the feeling in his brain, the urge that something is unaccounted for. The clutch of Jake's thighs is warm and welcome, nuking the viscosity of Dirk's brain and turning his thoughts to honey-sweet sludge. 

When Jake lets Dirk loose, pulls him up, the ensuing brohug is tight and bruising.

When Jake dispatches skeletons, later, he's merciless. 

Jake's eyes are green, the same shade as his pesterchum text, as growing things, as comic book radioactive waste. The skin around them tightens every time Jake takes a shot, minute movements of muscles that Dirk is caught up watching. Jake never flinches, takes the kickback from his guns like a champ. Boom, headshot. 

Another skeleton bites the dust.

Jake takes in the rest of Dirk's confession, long-coming though it is, with the same unwavering calm. It's not what Dirk expected. Anticlimactic. Jake bumbles his acceptance and it's a double exposure, the picture of nerves superimposed over some still shot, almost an empty frame. Like Dirk took a shot of the sky and it's a miss, he knows it's a miss, but Jake is projected into that space too and all calculations of success are thrown into turmoil. He's getting what he wanted, who cares that the background noise is off? 

When they kiss, it's not nearly as dramatic as an action movie might dictate. There are powdered bones strewn about their narrow plateau, but Dirk can see down and down, and his entire vision is enemy-free. It's barren and lonely and the air smells like decay, like hidden things, but they're alive and fuck if that isn't worth something. Dirk presses his mouth over Jake's, rough and present, gripping both sides of Jake's neck with his hands like he needs a tether, preferably a delicate one, one with a hint of pulse beneath Dirk's fingers. 

Jake's return kiss is a slow start, a flutter and a fumble, the pressure of his lips clumsy against Dirk's. It's human and reassuring and Dirk strokes the sides of his thumbs against the underside of Jake's jaw in acceptance of it. Dirk's throat constricts as his lips part, forcing their mouths together quicker and quicker, excited and a little bit out of control. 

It doesn't matter how sluggish Jake is, Dirk is intent on stroking his tongue against the inside of Jake's mouth, vibrating with nerves, battering himself with this thing he wants. 

Jake mimics him, like a reflection, and at first it's so sweet it sears. Jake repeats the same brush of tongue, the same press of lips, mirrors the way Dirk tilts his mouth to meet him and achieves hot, close contact that jerks a breath from Dirk hard enough to rival the kickback of Jake's guns. It's following, it's keeping pace, it's both at once and that is just as much as Dirk has ever asked for.

But it's not experimenting, it's not reaching out, there's none of that try-new-things drive, just a hallow echo of the things Dirk sets out first. It's Jake English, ruthless kissing machine, offering precisely what Dirk shows him Dirk craves. The taste on Dirk's tongue is cloying, rancid sugar, and the taste at the back of his throat is the slow rise of nervous bile. 

It's off, it's off, something's not right and if it's just a miscalculation, something as simple as a tiny human error, it can't possibly be more than Dirk knows how to put right. 

Dirk stops leading; Jake stops kissing. They pull apart, Dirk's hands loosening from around Jake's neck. Jake's breathing is loud against the still air, and Dirk can hear his own lungs rasping out. He can hear the more distant sound of skeletal feet scuttling against chalky rock. 

He can hear the faint clink of metal, when Jake again draws his guns. 

He can hear the impact of Jake's first bullet, even, with the scrape of his sword being drawn coming fast on that noise's heels. The skeletons they fight come out of the bowels of Jake's planet, smelling of mold and decay, disgorged from the world's insides like so much hidden refuse. For a while, all Dirk can smell is the stale of the air while they fight, both of them efficient and deadly, but he can still taste the rot crawling against the inside of his mouth.


End file.
